


Bees Under My Skin

by ziusura



Series: press on me; we are endless beings [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Impact Play, M/M, Masochism, Non-Negotiated Kink, kink under the influence, verbal berating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a shit party made even shittier when Stiles shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bees Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> So I continued it. Like the last one, the boys really have no business involving themselves in kink because they're incredibly inexperienced and have no idea what they're getting themselves in to. 
> 
> If you're unable to read this due to the rape tag--no worries, you can skip it. There's a quick summary of the few "important" bits in the next fic.
> 
> The rape/noncon tag comes from the fact that Stiles and Jackson are under the influence and unable to properly consent, and one strongly regrets what happened upon sobering. 
> 
> This can be read as a stand alone if you choose.

The party was a bust, not that it was Jefferson’s fault. His end of season bash, or whatever the hell he called it the past few years, was usually pretty decent--plenty of booze, good music, lots of girls. It wasn’t his fault his brother was a frosh and invited half his class for their first real party. But Jackson had half the mind to grab some good stuff from the fridge in the basement and leave because getting trashed by himself seemed a lot more fun than this dump. 

He didn’t though, just sat on the floor between the couch and coffee table in Jefferson’s living room and nursed his beer. Danny and his new boy were setting up jello shots for some sort of drinking game in front of him--probably Never Have I Ever; Danny looked three or so beers in and he always wanted to play Never Have I Ever then. 

Jackson rested the lip of his bottle against his teeth and stared at the shot arrangement. He felt off, a little too tense and unfocused, and his body ached from the excessive workout he did that afternoon in the hopes that it’d burn away the energy thrumming through his body. It didn’t. The lacrosse season ended too early, the supernatural side of things was eerily quiet, and Jackson wanted to drown himself in alcohol until he didn’t care anymore. 

Danny’s hand slammed down onto the table, the shots nearly jostling off the table before his new boy stilled them, and Jackson jumped, knocking his beer hard into his upper lip. 

“ _Fuck_ , Danny,” he said, and he lifted his hand up to check for blood. It came back clean. “What the hell was that for?”

Danny just sort of giggled, and hell he was way more than three beers in if that was his reaction, and his new boy smiled apologetically at Jackson, not that it was going to make Jackson like the douche any more than he did, which was admittedly little. Danny had shit taste; his current dude thought a goatee was a good look for his sparse facial hair and wore _flannel_ , for God’s sake.

“I _said_ are you going to play?” Danny asked, half sung, and Jackson really fucking hoped Danny’s new boy would take care of him well because Jackson wanted to get far too trashed to take care of him himself. 

Jackson looked to the left, where he’d see the basement door had it not been obscured by freshman, laughing loudly and sloshing cheap beer out of their red solo cups. He sighed and turned back towards Danny. “Yeah, okay.” 

Danny reached forward to slap his shoulder, but ended up using his shoulder to catch his balance instead when he leaned too far forward. 

“Thanks, man,” Danny said earnestly, and his wide, dimpled smile came so easily he looked a lot less drunk than he really was for the moment it was on his face. 

Jackson quirked a corner of his mouth up in response, and made to move forward to help Danny back to the other side of the table, but froze halfway there when an annoying as fuck laugh filtered in through the low bass from the speakers. He breathed sharply through his nose, and forced his body to relax like he would right before he stood up on the starting block before a swim race. By the time Jackson had helped Danny over and sat back stiffly against the couch, his hand in a white knuckled grip around the neck of his beer, the owner of the laugh and his equally infuriating best friend walked into the living room. 

The last time Jackson had seen Stiles was at the final lacrosse game, their fucking awful 5-1 loss to a subpar team. Jackson had stayed after, throwing his shit around the field in frustration until Stiles had shown up, backed him up against the bleachers, and yelled until Jackson was shaking and his throat was raw from yelling back. It might’ve gone further had Stiles’ phone not gone off, ringtone some 80s shit about being cold as ice--Jackson’s just glad it didn’t. He didn’t...he didn’t _get_ what’s happening. Just that it wasn’t the first time he’d been left hard and confused and frustrated for reasons he didn’t understand. 

Danny didn’t know that though; Jackson would rather wear something from Scott’s closet than tell him that being around Stiles made him nervous. No. Not nervous, just uncomfortable, reasonably scared about that shit that went down in the locker room, stuff that happened between then and now. 

But, since Danny didn’t know, he smiled and waved Scott over. Stiles came with of course, they were a packaged deal, and Jackson pulled as much venom into his voice as he could over the _uncomfortable_ churning in his stomach to say, “Maybe my eyesight just suddenly dropped, but I’m pretty sure Danny only called Scott over.” 

Scott opened his mouth to defend his friend, but Stiles beat him to it. “Suddenly dropping? Might want to get that checked out, maybe get some of those goggle glasses so you don’t break your glasses when you get your lizard fur on.” 

Jackson’s hand rotated around his beer, lip pulling into a sneer, and just to spite him Stiles didn’t take one of the many seats open around the coffee table, choosing instead to park himself on the couch right behind Jackson. His long legs bracketed Jackson on either side, and Jackson went back-straight and rigid. Stiles’ sneakers were centimeters away from Jackson’s thigh, and Jackson pushed his free hand flat against his leg to keep from unconsciously flexing over them.

“What’s the game?,” Stiles asked casually, like he hadn’t just taken all of Jackson’s space, and before he got an answer, continued, “I’m in.”

“Never Have I Ever,” Danny’s new guy said.

Scott shrugged and sat on the other side of Stiles, and two girls who were hovering near the couch took the last two open seats, effectively trapping Jackson into his position because he was too much of a _frozen_ fuckface to elbow Stiles in the calf or some shit and move away when he had the chance.

It started out slow, shit like ‘I’ve never fucked in school,’ and ‘I’ve never had a threesome.’ Offhand stuff Jackson saw in every Never Have I Ever, and he was starting to regret not leaving when he could, but at least he had enough experience to get well beyond buzzed so far. 

It was Danny’s new boy’s turn, and he said he’d never fucked someone while they were in uniform while making gross eyes at Danny. Jackson snorted, took a shot, and nearly took a second just to make himself feel better about how obviously sleezy Danny’s new boy was being. 

The blonde girl on the other side of him giggled, took a shot, then said, “Never have I ever gotten off while someone else was in the room--someone I wasn’t having sex with I mean.” 

Jackson grabbed his shot and had it halfway to his mouth when unexpected heat covered his back. He pushed down a gasp and froze, shot still in the air. Stiles was reaching for his first shot of the game. His arm brushed the top of Jackson’s hair, probably purposefully, as Stiles knocked it back, and Jackson resisted the urge to shrink down. He wasn’t some wimp--some baby still on the bottle. He was Jackson. 

The heat pulled away, and Jackson sighed in relief, felt like he could relax a little again, but Stiles’ hand didn’t go back. Stiles left it resting on Jackson’s shoulder, then moved it to Jackson’s neck, just above a protruding vertebra. He felt hyper aware of everything, and he swallowed down the anticipation of what Stiles was going to do next because his hand shouldn’t be there, because Jackson shouldn’t give a shit about what it was going to do next. 

He just squeezed. Nothing special--a gentle flex of fingers with just an edge of too much pressure, but Jackson was horrified to feel his dick stir up interest. 

“Jackson?” 

The hand around his neck squeezed harder. All eyes were on him, questioning, but not confused. Not...not like they were seeing Stiles’ hand on him. How could they not?

“What?” he slurred, realizing they were talking to him. Fuck. He didn’t feel that drunk. 

“Your go,” the girl next to Danny said gently. She didn’t sound as drunk as she should be. 

Jackson rubbed a hand down his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sucked in a shaky breath. 

“Right,” he said into his palm. He couldn’t concentrate. He should just shove Stiles’ hand off, move away from him and be done with it, but he couldn’t. There was something keeping it there, something Jackson _wanted_ , and Jackson couldn’t fucking think. 

“Never…” ever had he touched Stiles. Gotten off thinking about Stiles punching him. About punishing him for that shit game. About Stiles’ hand, a heavy and painful cuff around the base of his neck. Jackson put his hand down, rubbed his sweaty palms against his thigh. Danny was giving him a concerned look across the table, which was bullshit-- _he_ was the one drunk off his ass, he warranted the concerned looks. “Have I ever licked a guy’s asshole,” he finished. 

“Aw c’mon, man,” Danny said, but he really didn’t sound that angry, and he and his boy both took a shot. Relief flooded through Jackson’s veins, at least until he remembered that it was now Stiles’ go. 

“Never have I ever gotten off while being punched in the face,” he said immediately, and ran his thumb-nail up and down the side of Jackson’s neck as he spoke. Jackson tensed, forced down the fear, the other shit he wasn’t examining because he wasn’t _fucking_ feeling it. 

He didn’t take the shot. Unsurprisingly, neither did anyone else, and Jackson felt Scott jostle Stiles, say something about rules being rules. 

“Fuck you, Jackson,” he heard Stiles mumble darkly into his rule abiding shot, and Jackson swallowed down his guilt; he didn’t give a fuck about Stilinski. 

The stroking stopped, and Jackson’s lungs burned as he took a breath; he hadn’t realized he’d stopped breathing. Stiles pushed his legs out more, sliding his calves against Jackson’s shoulders and his sneakers under Jackson’s thighs. Jackson almost looked down to see if the movement had knocked over his long forgotten beer, but he was afraid to see the physical evidence of how much he liked-- _didn’t like_ \--what Stiles was doing. But more afraid of the thought running through his head--that if he just leaned his head back, Stiles’ dick would be right fucking there. 

Scott went, the other girl went, Danny went, and so on, but Jackson couldn’t focus. He hadn’t taken a shot in three turns and it wasn’t because he hadn’t done what was said--he just. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t remember words as soon as they were said and couldn’t put enough of his brain together to understand them. His entire focus was on the pressure against his neck, how fuzzy it made him feel. It wasn’t a cuff of heat anymore--they’d been touching long enough that the heat equaled out--but Stiles never left it in one position for long, constantly shifting, constantly rubbing, constantly introducing more pressure, more pain in different ways before moving it again. 

He blinked and he realized the game had petered out. Scott and one of the girls were making out next to them, Danny was grinning goofily at his boy, and Jackson’s cheek was pressed hard against Stiles’ knee, the seam of his jeans probably leaving a mark on his skin. 

Stiles’ fingers squeezed twice and then pulled off completely, and Jackson felt lost, confused. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. 

“This asshole needs some water,” Stiles said, his voice with a weird lilt that gave away just how drunk he was off the few shots he’d taken. 

Jackson didn’t understand he was the asshole until Stiles grabbed Jackson’s wrist and jerked him up. He opened his mouth, a number of retorts about manhandling, about who the real asshole was, about how he wasn’t that drunk, but he didn’t want to. He felt good, focused under Stiles’ hand and gaze. 

He was vaguely aware of knocking over his beer, of the girl next to him grabbing it before it made too much of a mess.

Jackson didn’t get what was happening, why he was feeling like he did, but he didn’t know why he shouldn’t either beyond some small feeling in his gut that was slowly losing its say the further Stiles pulled him along. 

They passed the kitchen and Stiles didn’t look once at it, instead pulling him through the foyer and upstairs. They passed a few doors before Stiles pulled up next to the second to last one. He leaned Jackson on the wall just to the side of the door, and Jackson went willingly. Jackson felt some sort of warmth swell in his stomach when Stiles didn’t pull his hand off Jackson’s wrist when he opened the door. Stiles said something, and a minute later a few freshman ran out of the room. 

The started moving again. Stiles locked the door as soon as they were in the room and practically frogmarched Jackson to the bed because his legs stopped feeling like they could work. He pushed Jackson lightly to make him sit on the edge of the bed and moved his hands up to Jackson’s shoulders. And for the first time that night, he really looked at Jackson. 

His eyes were blown wide glossy, and in the dim light from one of the lamps on the bedside, Jackson could make out a thin line of brown around his pupils. Jackson felt trapped underneath them, but not bad. It was almost like he wanted to be there, and for a moment the little niggling his gut telling him this shouldn’t be happening flared up, but it felt too good sitting there, felt like that was where he was supposed to be. 

“Do you think you deserve this, Jackson?” Stiles said, and even while drunk his voice had a tone in it that made Jackson want to listen. 

Jackson nodded his head. Without a doubt he knew he deserved it, whatever _it_ was. 

Stiles shook his head, removed his hands from Jackson’s shoulders, and _fuck_. What did Jackson do wrong? 

“Please I--” Jackson said, desperate to explain himself and he didn’t know _why_. He just wanted Stiles to come back, to stop looking so disappointed. 

“Why do you deserve this?” 

“I...I didn’t move away from you downstairs. The game.” 

Stiles moved his hands to his belt, and Jackson didn’t like the way he felt when Stiles turned his eyes away from him. 

“But you’ve ignored me since the last lacrosse game, Jackson.”

Jackson’s stomach dropped, and swooped when Stiles finished unbuckling his belt, pushed his jeans halfway down his thighs to reveal his cock, hard and flushed in front of Jackson’s face. Stiles reached for Jackson’s face, and Jackson leaned into, letting Stiles part his lips with his thumb. 

“I..” Stiles said breathlessly, then stopped, swallowed. “I think you need to make it up to me.” 

“Yeah, I do,” Jackson said around Stiles’ thumb, and Stiles’ head fell back, his mouth parted. 

Jackson pushed forward, Stiles’ hand easily falling away from his face as he moved, and kissed the dick in front of him, open mouth and wet against the head. 

Stiles moaned loudly, almost sounding surprised. 

Jackson’s hands were flat against his own thighs, clenching at the rough material on his jeans. He was slightly off balanced leaning forward like he was, but he pushed through it; Jackson was strong, good at whatever he did. He could do it. 

Jackson opened his mouth enough to let the first inch or so of Stiles slip inside, and Stiles shuddered, slid his hands into Jackson’s hair and pulled. He pushed his way further into Jackson’s mouth, and Jackson let him. He needed to be good, needed to make it up to Stiles. 

It was clearly Stiles’ first blow job. He was doing everything wrong--pushing further into Jackson’s mouth, fucking himself into him with little uncontrollable twitches of his hips, pulling his hair _hard_. But it was okay. Jackson was there to be used, _needed_ to be used. And like a good boy, he kept his hands on his thighs because Stiles never said he could touch him--or himself, his dick was straining hard against his pants-- and did what he needed for Stiles. 

Jackson sucked around the head, gagged a little when Stiles hips shot forward, and then put as much pressure against Stiles’ shaft with his tongue as he could. Stiles didn’t last long, maybe three minutes at most before he shuddered hard and shot down Jackson’s throat with a high pitched groan. 

He swallowed most of it, though some dripped down his chin. Jackson didn’t move to wipe it off, just stared up at Stiles’ face until his jaw relaxed and Stiles’ hands slid down from Jackson’s hair to his shoulders. 

“Good...good job,” Stiles said, panting hard, and Jackson preened under the attention. Then suddenly, Stiles’ eyes went hard and his fist swung to knock into Jackson’s jaw. 

Jackson went down onto the bed, and Stiles’ hand followed, holding Jackson down by a hand spread against his face. Jackson jerked up, but Stiles’ hold didn’t break. 

“What the _fuck_?” Jackson yelled into Stiles’ palm, then softer added, “I thought I did good.” 

Stiles climbed up onto the bed and sat just above Jackson’s hips. 

“What about that lacrosse game, Jackson?” 

And _fuck_. Jackson stilled. Stiles didn’t remove his hand. 

“You made it up for ignoring me, but what about the lacrosse team? What about our playoff chances? That third goal was your fault, Jackson.” 

Jackson shut his eyes, let the despair from that game fall over him. S- “orry.” He was so sorry. 

Stiles increased the pressure around Jackson’s face, then pulled off. 

“Sorry’s not good enough, Jackson.” 

What was then? The game was so awful, they lost so bad. And Jackson was so _fucking_ hard. 

“But I can help, Jackson, help show the team just how sorry you are.”

Pain exploded on the other side of Jackson’s face, and when he opened his eyes Stiles’ hand was raised high, ready for another hit. Jackson licked his lips and tasted copper. 

“Please,” Jackson whispered, and felt instant relief when Stiles hit him again. 

Stiles’ eyes went soft, his lids going half mast, and he gently ran his fingertips across the area he had just hit. “Of course,” he said, and Jackson leaned into Stiles’ hand, trying to get more pain out of his touch. 

“Jerk yourself off,” Stiles said, and Jackson’s response was instantaneous. As soon as Stiles went up on his knees, giving Jackson enough room to get a hand at himself, he forewent an attempt at his belt and unceremoniously shoved his hand beneath his waistband. He sighed when he got his hand around himself and tugged harshly. 

Stiles’ hand trailed down Jackson’s neck, the column of his throat working as Stiles moved, and came to a stop just below Jackson’s collarbone. Jackson didn’t know what to expect, didn’t understand why Stiles wasn’t hitting him in the face anymore. At first he thought he did something wrong, but after Stiles blinked, shook his head like he was shaking off a thought, and put his full body weight onto the hand against Jackson, he knew whatever it was it was on Stiles. 

It was difficult to breathe with that much pressure against his chest, made even more difficult by the breathlessness he felt getting himself off while Stiles looked at him like...like Jackson was the entire world. Every breath burned, his exhales shallow, but he didn’t know how this showed how sorry he was. 

Stiles must have noticed him starting to lose it, because he shifted his weight forward and brought his other hand up to pull Jackson’s hair. 

“You fucked up, Jackson,” Stiles said, punctuating his sentence with a sharp yank. 

“Yeah,” Jackson said, voice catching. 

“You fucked up, and now I’m stuck cleaning up the mess.” 

Stiles released his hair, and Jackson almost let himself be disappointed, but Stiles’ hand slapped him instead, and Jackson let himself relax into the pain. 

“Do you feel sorry yet?” Stiles asked. 

Jackson couldn’t make his throat work, couldn’t respond, so he nodded his head. That earned him another blow, harder than the others. 

“I can’t understand you if you don’t use words.” 

Jackson swallowed, clenched at his dick a little tighter. “Yes, I’m sorry,” he cried out. 

Stiles leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching Jackson’s. “Then come,” he whispered, and Jackson could feel his breath, the intensity of Stiles’ words against his mouth. 

And Jackson did.

* * *

Jackson woke up slowly. He was warm, so warm, and despite a slight headache pulsing in his head, he felt more relaxed, more like himself than he had in days. 

He nuzzled into the solid warmth around his face, and froze when it nuzzled back. The night before came back in a rush of disjointed images, and Jackson’s eyes snapped open, whatever good feelings he had long gone and replaced by something bitter, something ashamed. Sure enough, it wasn’t some nightmare. He was in bed with fucking _Stilinski_ , and he wanted to throw up. 

Jackson shoved the chest in front of him as hard as he could, and Stiles flailed himself awake as he tried not to fall off the bed. Jackson wished he had. 

“What the _fuck_ , Stilinski,” Jackson snarled, and Stiles blinked slowly at him. 

“Wha?” he said unintelligibly, and Jackson clenched at the sheets to keep himself from running. He couldn’t believe that Stiles...that Stiles did that to him. Didn’t he know something was wrong? That Jackson wasn’t...himself. 

“I said,” Jackson bit out, “what the fuck did you think you were doing last night.” 

Recognition sparked in Stiles’ eyes, but he seemed surprised. “I was...We were fooling around?” 

“Don’t you think you should’ve asked if I wanted to first?” Jackson said, anger chilling his voice. He didn’t know if he would’ve said no last night, but he. No. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want the _whatever_ that Stiles offered at all, and he didn’t know why Stiles kept doing that do him. 

“I thought I...You did want to?” 

“No, I didn’t, Stiles,” Jackson said, his voice shaking with something he didn’t want to examine too closely. 

“Fuck I--” Stiles rubbed a hand through his hair and frustratedly looked at the space on the bed between them. “Jackson I was drunk too and I...you do this a lot. You confuse me. We yell, I shove you around, and you go soft and pliant and look at me like…” 

Stiles brought his eyes back up to meet Jackson’s. His eyes looked wet, and Jackson swallowed down something he didn’t want to identify. “I liked you looking at me like that,” Stiles said, his voice cracking. “I just thought you liked it too.”

He did, was the problem. Jackson didn’t know what the hell was going on. He was so fucking dirty, so ashamed, and beyond all that he knew he did. 

Jackson’s stomach churned, and he was up and pushing Stiles out of the way to get to the en suite in no time at all, barely making it to the sink because it was closer than the toilet. Stiles didn’t follow him into the bathroom to check in on him or anything, and as glad as he was about that, there was some _disgusting_ part of him that was disappointed. 

When he was finished puking he rested his forehead against the cool mirror. Acid burned his throat and tears burned his eyes. Jackson was on fire, and he didn’t know how to put himself out. 

“What’s wrong with me,” he croaked to himself, to no one in particular, his words heavy and trapped in the space between his mouth and the mirror. 

Unsurprisingly, no one answered back. Jackson rinsed his mouth out with shaking hands, and when he gathered the courage to go back into the bedroom, Stiles was gone. 

Jackson picked up his clothes, put them on, and left to go find Danny. He was sprawled out on the couch in the living room, and there must have been something about Jackson’s face because he didn’t grumble once when Jackson woke him up. 

“Oh, you ready to go?” Danny asked, sleep coloring his voice. 

Jackson just nodded, didn’t trust his words anymore.

“So...you and Stiles?” Danny asked as they stepped out the front door, and Jackson’s stomach lurched. He threw up again, this time on the Jeffersons’ hydrangea bush.

It was an innocent question and Danny was his best friend, but fuck. Fuck. He’d seen them. Everyone in that fucking house could have seen them, and Jackson wasn’t that weak. He refused to be that weak. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and clenched his eyes shut in some attempt to hold back the tears prickling his eyes. Danny’s hand was on his back, rubbing smooth circles, but it didn’t make him feel better. 

“Are you okay?” Danny asked, concern leaking into his voice.

He wasn’t. He really wasn’t.


End file.
